


Confessional

by sasha_b



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Eating, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Kink Meme, Mild Language, Spoilers, discussion of religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 18:16:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3946822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt and Foggy pray for Hell's Kitchen and each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confessional

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt from the KinkMeme: _I'd really like two scenes, with the two of them praying for each other, and the differences between them._
> 
>  
> 
> _Like, Matt actually in a church, praying with the proper Catholic words and asking for Foggy's health and safety._
> 
>  
> 
> _Juxtaposed with Foggy saying a clumsy prayer some morning in his bedroom, and he's never been religious, but he knows Matt is, so he wants to pray for him. "So, uh, God. I really don't want Matt to die, okay? I know this ridiculous Daredevil bullshit, sorry, is dangerous, and he's got a death wish, but he believes in you, so-- um. Watch out for him. The world needs Matt Murdock, okay?"_
> 
>  
> 
> _All the feels, guys._
> 
>  
> 
> Notes at the end of this fic for a few possible triggers (also listed in tags).

The nave is empty.

Matt stops at the edge of the fourth pew back from the altar and genuflects. His knees ache and his back pops and the bruise-the-size-of-a-baseball twitches as he rises, his glasses hiding him from anyone who’d dare approach and ask the poor blind man if he needs help.

Luckily for him, the nave is empty.

He sits, assuming Father Lantom will come out of his office (after finishing the slightly cold latte he’s drinking) and chat with him. Matt’s ready for that; he’s ready to confess what a horrid person he is, what he’s sacrificed to keep his city safe, what he’s going to continue to do in order to make sure Hell’s Kitchen won’t be wiped off the map now that it’s recovering from the Battle.

He owes the city. He’ll protect it. And sometimes, that pisses him off. It brings the rage to the fore and he uses it to wipe the ground with the scumbags that want to turn his home into trash.

He breathes and listens and cocks his head and realizes the priest isn’t coming out. He’s shuffling papers and talking on the phone to his brother in New Jersey and Matt knows the other man _knows_ he’s here, but is staying in the rectory and for some reason, and that makes Matt’s gut churn and he starts to get up.

The pillows that sit randomly on the pews are old, and as he turns to go he gets a whiff of coffee and pizza and _dude, only old men wear Canoe._

_Come on, chicks like cologne. Work with me, Matty!_

Oh, God. Oh, Foggy. Matt’s throat is thick and he swallows over it, forcing the huge lump down, down towards his stomach, toward the churning source of his guilt and he bites his lip until the urge to sob passes.

He turns back toward the altar, and approaches it, the dust in the corners and the one cobweb the cleaning person missed and the intense reek of Pledge assaults him but he keeps on, the crucifix there in front of him.

It’s waiting for him.

 _He’s_ waiting for him.

Matt’s father had attended this church, and now Matt does, and he remembers the dark wooden confessional and the melted candles and the Mary statue and the huge, hanging crucifix at the front. He doesn’t need his unique sight to know where he’s going, but he lets the _focus_ come anyway. It allows him to see beyond the surface, to hear his own heart racing, to feel his stomach twist and rumble, to allow the burn and tingle of his rising goose bumps to fill his mind.

_I wouldn’t have hidden this from you. Not from you._

_You don’t know that._

But Matt does know that. Foggy would have told him. He would have let Matt help – would have asked for Matt’s help. Most likely.

But Matt isn’t Foggy, and Matt might get Foggy killed yet. He might get Karen killed. He almost got Claire killed. Because of his vendetta. Because of what he needs to do, of what he _has_ to do. 

He kneels at the foot of the altar and casts his eyes toward the crucifix; toward the God he’s believed in and loved his whole life. Toward the God that seems to have abandoned –

He can’t think that. His throat constricts and all he can taste is iron. His wounds throb and his head pounds and he bows his head, removing his glasses and haphazardly dropping them at his knees. He closes his eyes and winds his fingers together.

His act of contrition is memorized and he murmurs it out loud, fervently, believing the words, despite what his heart of hearts is telling him. 

When he finishes he crosses himself, and after a moment, stands, his hands fluttering to find his cane, lost birds looking to roost. He doesn’t need it here, but the comfort of holding it – he wipes a hand under his eyes, the wetness there sticky and annoying and he retrieves his glasses from halfway under the pew next to him (he had kicked them there while getting up). Putting them back on is like –

The mask is a second skin and he slips it on as he stands on the roof, the new black top having arrived from Amazon earlier that day. He’s burned through four of them; getting his ass handed to him is starting to become a pattern he’s not happy with, but he’s a Murdock, and he gets back up. He’s giving the beatings now, and he’s doing what he needs to. The money he’s spent doesn’t matter as long as he’s not caught by the wrong people and the city is safe.

He cocks his head to the left and _focus_ and there, three blocks southeast and he’s swinging into action, the cargo pockets of the pants holding his sticks, his mind on finding his way to where the whimpering he hears is coming from and why.

He doesn’t think about Foggy and the fact he has to return to work tomorrow and act as though - he bites his bottom lip and flips over the railing of a rusty, broken down fire escape and lands with all the grace he’s capable of (one thing he can still thank Stick for) and pushes the _Foggy Foggy Foggy_ out of his thoughts so he can take care of this thing that’s now in front of him. The city needs him and will until he can take care of Fisk. Cut off the head, the monster dies.

At 3 that morning he limps back in through the upstairs door of his loft, his new top torn at the shoulder, but the information he’s gathered worth any pain or new bruises or the blood he can taste in his mouth.

He grunts as he takes the outfit off; his boots and mask and clothing going into the trunk under his father’s things. He glugs down half a liter of water and four aspirin and collapses on top of the covers on his bed, his brain buzzing, his phone clattering on to the small table by his head, and the

_I have sinned against you_  
whom I should love above all things.  
I firmly intend, with your help,  
to do penance,  
to sin no more 

God. Have mercy on your son.

_Forgive me, God._

_Forgive me, Foggy._

“I’m only doing what’s right,” he whispers, and turns over, the ache he feels everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

He swallows and pulls the pillow next to him over his head.

*

Josie’s is closed and Foggy really doesn’t want to go home.

He’s seen Karen off; she hadn’t really wanted to leave, but he’d insisted she get some sleep. “At least one of us should!” he had spouted merrily, his stomach burning; she’d given him _that_ face but he’d kept on, telling her he was going by Matt’s to check on his interviewing process. He’d made up some bullshit about wanting to make sure Ben would get the best info from Nelson and Murdock that he could, and when he’d been sure she’d gone upstairs to her place, he’d turned down the block and had started walking.

No stores open, no booze available. 

The moon is high and it’s starting to get chilly but Foggy keeps on, the benches in the park he passes relatively clear of miscreants (the _fucking Devil of Hell’s Kitchen_ legend is growing and Foggy wants to spit) and the wind picking up. He grasps his coat and pulls it more tightly around him, searching desperately for any store. Any bar, anything.

Instead, all he finds is a 24 Hour Dunkin Donuts.

He sits on the next bench he finds and slugs down coffee so hot he can feel it turn to steam the second it hits his stomach, and only slows down after he’s devoured the second rainbow sprinkle cake donut. He stops, looking at the bag sitting next to him on the iron bench, icing dotting the corner of his mouth, and he wipes at it as he raises his eyes to see where in the hell he is.

Sugar coma aside, he’d never come here on purpose.

The church behind him looms, a setting for some sort of gothic novel that would have scared the shit out of him as a kid. He stares at the tip of the steeple, watching, wondering when the vampire or whatever monster that would fit right in there will pop out and suck his blood or slit his throat or do whatever monsters do.

He burps and thinks that it might be a blessing if it would end the sorrow and abject misery he’s feeling. The donuts that he’d eaten in a rush threaten to come back up; he doesn’t know how long he can keep hiding what happened between him and Matt from Karen. He doesn’t know how long he wants to. It would serve the asshole right for him to tell Karen.

But then Matt would do that _broken puppy_ face and Foggy would do whatever the other man asked him to do, because it’s Matt, and Matt is Foggy’s best friend.

Was.

He looks at the church again. This is that church Matt goes to, he thinks, and stands, dusting the sugar off his hands, and approaches the door, leaving the bag of sweets behind in the cold air.

He doesn’t expect the door to be open, but it is. He pushes inside and wrinkles his nose at the incense smell and the smoke from the dozens of candles that are lit.

Foggy wanders, and thinks about Matt, and what Matt believes he’s doing. How Matt’s absolute certainty in that the city needs him blows Foggy’s mind, because Foggy’s only ever thought about what Foggy wants when it comes to Matt and his life.

That’s selfish, and not really true. Foggy is a good friend to Matt. The best. He loves - 

Foggy cocks his head and sits wearily in one of the uncomfortably high backed pews and stares at the huge statue of Jesus on the cross in front of him. It’s kind of a creepy statue, really. Staring eyes, bleeding wounds, emaciated body. Foggy knows the story, knows how important this is to Matt, knows that a lot of people find solace here. He rubs his face and wonders if the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen finds any relief here too.

His throat swells and he swallows over the lump and Matt’s _face_ is there, beaten and bloodied, the shadows under his eyes deep and bruised and Foggy resists the urge to spit, everything sour, his whole body crunched forward and he closes his eyes and all he can see is Matt, Matt so hurt and yet so convinced of his righteous path, Matt’s mouth downturned and Matt’s eyes tearing and he hears Matt’s voice saying his name, broken and pleading.

Pleading for him to understand.

“Look,” Foggy bursts out, looking at the Jesus statue. “I don’t know if you listen to non-believers. But I’m not asking for me. I’m asking for him. For Matt. 

“I know this stuff he’s doing is God damn – sorry – gosh darn – shit – ridiculously stupid and dangerous. But … he believes in it, believes in what he’s doing. I don’t,” he adds, vehement and angry still. “I need _him_. I need him more than this city does.” Foggy looks down at his interlaced fingers that rest on the back of the pew in front of him. “Actually, that’s a greedy thing to say. It’s greedy to think it.” He sighs and his eyes burn and he rubs the left one with the back of his hand, re-interlacing them when he’s done. “But I need him, maybe more than the city does. I need him to be okay.”

He looks up and the statue is still there, not moving, not listening. He stands, and slips out of the pew, stopping at the edge, his knock off leather shoes slick on the old carpet. “I am not okay with this. But –” he hesitates, chafing his suddenly cold fingers together. “Regardless of who needs him the most, can you just make sure he’s okay? Can you help him get through this?”

He waits, the smell of the wax candles and the dying incense surrounding him in a fog, the clicking of the old building insect-like and dry.

Nothing. Not that he had expected it.

He turns and heads for the door, and halts one more time, this time closing his eyes and squeezing his temples between his palms. “Please. The world needs Matt Murdock, okay?”

He slips through the not-supposed-to-be-open door and back out into the pre-winter night, not sure if he’d accomplished anything or made himself feel any better at all. The wind blows his hair forward and he blinks back moisture – from the wind, he tells himself.

He retrieves his left over donuts from the bench and dumps the remainder of the coffee into the trash as he heads east down the street, turning on an automatic trajectory that leads him past –

He can see that Matt’s lights aren’t on, but then again, they aren’t most of the time. Only for Foggy, really. Or Karen.

He waffles, one foot turned near the front entrance, one toward the street. It’s like 2am, and Matt most likely is asleep. Or out doing dumb, stupid shit that makes Foggy really mad, and want to punch Matt, even though he kind of…gets it, in a way. Which makes him madder, since he’s had some time to consider it.

He does have two donuts left, and he has a key.

He sticks out a hand, reaching for the door handle, and 

_Matt’s bruised face._

_The city needs me, Foggy._

_I do too._

He dumps the donuts in the trash on the corner, the neon lights overhead bleaching the streets of Hell’s Kitchen to a bone white, blank, skeletal, empty.

He scurries alone to his apartment, the locking mechanism on the door loud and forcing a throbbing in his head when he engages it.

**Author's Note:**

> A few things (possible triggers) - I am not any kind of practicer of religion; I had to look up the act of contrition online. No offense meant if I got it wrong. I also made Foggy kind of weirded out by the Crucifix and again, no harm meant. I just thought it would be appropriate for the character.
> 
> Foggy is also kind of me here in that he eats his feelings, so there's that.
> 
> Also, language. 
> 
> I know that in NYC there is no such thing as no open stores, but it worked for the story, so forgive me that indulgence. ;)
> 
> I loved this prompt and totally angsted it up. Sorry for that. Matt and Foggy + feelings = OT3. 
> 
> Feedback is love.


End file.
